


Training

by TheForgottenWarden



Series: Of love in times of Blight, and other demons [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Anders (mentioned) - Freeform, Artistic Liberties, Circle of Magi, Cullen (mentioned) - Freeform, Elves, Gen, Mage Origin, Mages, One-Sided Attraction, Slight Canon Divergence, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10980282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheForgottenWarden/pseuds/TheForgottenWarden
Summary: The first days of Neria Surana, future Hero of Ferelden, in Kinloch Hold (12 years old, 9:25 Dragon).





	Training

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my native language, so I apologize beforehand for any grammatical error you may find while reading. Hope you enjoy this.
> 
> EDIT: I've edited the date, because the previous one made no sense.

The trembling flame waxed and waned with her heavy breathing.

 "Focus, girl! You must control the fire with your will, not with your breath", Irving said, patiently.

It was easier said than done. With sweat covering her face, Neria slowly intoned a simple spell, a rhythmic chant that made no sense to her. Supposedly, each syllable served to regulate the mana that fueled her magic. " _Íbar, Secmet, Ripali, Sectur…_ " The fire grew brightly shortly before it wavered and snuffed out in a blink. Her frustration was evident. She was being tutored by the First Enchanter himself, she needed to give only her best. She was about to cry.

"Not bad, but you need to progress faster," he said, and she believed he was... pleased? "Arcane arts aren't really that difficult, Neria. They are like poetry: It only takes inspiration, relax and a little patience. Now, go get some rest. You've earned it".  


"Can I go to the fields later, First Enchanter?", she asked shyly.

"Not today, I'm afraid. There aren't enough free Templars until next weekend, when the new recruits will arrive. And if we ask to the ones that are off-duty to accompany you, they may believe you want to follow in Anders' footsteps."

The unnamed fellow, "Anders". The guy who was able to outsmart the Templars not once, but twice. He was like a living legend in some apprentice groups, lately. She had even talked to him once, when he was working in the library as his punishment. Funny fellow, with interesting tales about the outside world. But Neria remembered the look on the faces of her teachers and the Templars while she was talking with him. She nodded to Irving with a sad smile and left the training room quietly. She really wanted to go outside this time. Maybe, if she had tried hard enough...

Since Anders' arrival, Irving allowed the students to stroll in the fields near Kinloch Hold, beyond the broken bridge, for a few hours. And those fields reminded her of home. The feeling of freedom, the smell of the green, fresh grass, and the big, big blue sky. And her grandmother, with her tattooed face, smiling proudly whenever she referred to the wisps being swept away by the wind between the fields and the grass.

Neria had vague memories of her life before Kinloch Hold. She lived with her grandmother and had two brothers. Didn't knew her parents. Seems they had died, for all that she could recall. She didn't even remembered the exact name of her birthplace, only that the name finished with an "in"—maybe the place called Lothering in the maps? Or Denerim? She was brought to the Circle when she was six, according to Cullen, that kind Templar-recruit that always gave her cookies and other sweets—the only Templar she wasn't afraid of, in fact—. Too young, he had said, as mages usually reveal their magical talent in late childhood or early adolescence.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't realized in what moment she had reached her room. Well, _their_ room, as it was shared with all the other apprentices. It was a simple place, with little furniture and almost no decoration, and in one side of her bed was a desk packed with volumes of arcane theory—a gift from Irving—, energy diagrams, intonation guides, and piles of sheets full of notes. This was the only place in the Tower where she felt comfortable, safe from the prying eyes of the Templars.

After having rested for a bit, Neria decided to try it once more. "Fire is the most basic of all elemental spells," Irving had said during his first lessons. "Once you have learn how to cast magical flames, you will be able to dominate other Primal spells more easily." He had given her instructions on how to accomplish this, followed by an interminable speech of which Neria recalled less than a fraction, in which he had exhaustively detailed the mechanism by which fire spells were the simplest Primal magic to manipulate.

Taking a deep breath while avoiding to make any noise that would interrupt her fellow apprentices of their endeavors, she lifted her arm and with a slight effort-comparable to that needed to make an step-conjured a small flame. The flame danced in her palm and for a moment turned red-or so she believed-after which it straightened, turning into a patetic shimmer of flame that was barely emitting any heat. Neria slammed her hand out of frustration. After months of constant practice this was all the magic she had mastered.

" _Fenedhis!_ ", she mumbled as she flopped onto her bed, exasperated.

"Shh! I'm trying to read!" said someone. Maybe it was Finn.

Neria wondered for the hundredth time if her problems weren't because she was fundamentally incompetent. Discouraged, she sat down at her desk, took a blank sheet and wrote her name:

** NERIA **

The calligraphy, wizened and out of tune, left much to be desired, but writing her name had become like a relaxation ritual, a reminder of how high she had come from her origins as a humble and illiterate frog-catcher.

She wrote her name again under the first one, and observed the writing of both words. The fact that the two strokes were identical at first glance didn't mean that there was no improvement in the second one, she decided at that moment, however imperceptible it might be. Magic, she thought, was perhaps less similar to writing poetry, as Irving claimed, and more like the act of writing itself. Years ago, she had started without knowing anything and now, after much practice, she was able to write her own name, and much more; In the future, she was sure, she could write in the elegant handwriting of a scribe.

Encouraged by this idea, Neria sighed, and putting exhaustion aside, glanced at her manual of intonations, and with a faint smile invoked a new flame. _"Íbar, Secmet, Rípali, Sectur..."_

This time, the flame persisted for much longer before being extinguished.


End file.
